World Mental Health Day

-Kathryn Driscoll (She says: “I won the current U.K. slam title in March with this poem about how the gov and DWP weaponise mental health against disabled people in the U.K)

-Elizabeth Castillo (First appeared in Janus Literary (https://www.janusliterary.com/2021/06/30/elizabeth-m-castillo-papier-mache/)

Seven poems, for seven days of growth and awareness. These were first published on the @InternetofWords Twitter Feed.

Click below to hear audio for five of the pieces, part of my scheduled #Instaverse project.

Bloom
Grow
Seed
Plant
Nurture

-S Reeson

Access poems from her self-published poetry chapbook, CURT; URBANE.

Here’s links to all the individual poems:

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Tables Turn

Overheard

Bottom Drawer

Terroir

Solecism

Decline and Balls

Perjurer

Convention Stans

First, His

Hysteria

Second, Hers

Recessive Jean

Exhale

Crooked, Inspired

Written

Redeemed Action

Underdone

Leaving Alone

curt; urbane

Stigma

-S. Reeson

Bios And Links

-Kathryn O’Driscoll

is the current UK slam champion, a World Slam finalist, a poet and activist from Bath.

-S Reeson [she/they] i

s 54, bisexual and married with two children: they have suffered anxiety for all of their life, and started telling stories as a ten-year-old in order to help them cope. Now, they write and record poetry, short stories and episodic fiction, whilst dissecting their unique creative process using both video and audio as the means to continue coping.

A considerable lived experience of mental health issues, a passion for niche arts and media and an undimmed enthusiasm for environmentalism combine, to allow creativity to emerge, and new stories and projects to be created. They love to experiment and push creative boundaries, and gain a huge amount of motivation and inspiration from talking about both the journey and continued evolution as a creative.

After winning a Poetry Society members’ contest (and reading that piece at the Poetry Café in Covent Garden) they attended the inaugural Mslexicon in 2019, chosen as their first ever participative literary event. In that same year they wrote 24 poems about their home town for the Places of Poetry online initiative, one of which is included in the official anthology published for National Poetry Day in October 2020 and subsequently reproduced by the Sunday Telegraph.

Their work has appeared in the Flights / Quarterly ejournal, Green Ink Poetry, Fevers of the Mind and has been published by Black Bough Poetry, and they are a regular participant in an increasing number of Zoom Open Mics, including the monthly event at Wordsworth Grasmere. They have self-published their own poetry chapbook, and have read poetry at the Essex Book Festival.

They enjoy living online, but also find great joy from lifting heavy weights, running and cycling in the meat-space. When not doing these, they are pursuing an ASD diagnosis on the NHS.

Baby Loss Awareness Week

 

 

Crocodiles

Your sister told me proudly that crocodiles carry their young in their mouths.
Only the ashes of your name remain on my tongue.
These, and the soft emptiness you left behind.

Grief is a dam.
Love without label or tag,
no recipient.
Nowhere to go.

I could carry you in my mouth,
in my pouch,
or any part of me.

Your father will bear the cut,
and I will stem the bleed,
collected in my little silver thimble.
See? They’ve taken it away,
and here and now,
at the very end
do I grieve.

-Elizabeth Castillo (It first appeared in The Tuna Fish Journal https://www.tunafishjournal.com/i3elizabethmcastillo

 

Portrait of a Girl-Child

I’ve never been skilled with likeness / paint, pencil,
even charcoal / none are talents of mine / I lie here,
floor level / wealth of media within arms’ reach /
trace the outlines of your almost-perfection / etch them
boldly like the rise / and fall of the monitor display /
/ failing heartbeat / failed attempt /failed me / paint
a pair of rosebud lips / full / like mine /red / iron-wrought
like the blood of your arrival / like the blood of your
departure /probably translucent / like your skin / like
the sack / crudely-formed / that couldn’t contain you /
you had my hair / unruly mane swirling defiantly
about your head / an amniotic crown / fit for royalty /

I named you Hera / queen of the Gods / like your
namesake you fade / with your heartbeat / into myth
/ smudge softness into the rounded parts of you /
anaemic breath blown into each curve / the crests
and peaks of your face / hazy now / like the voices
whispering of / rest / and / blood loss / my mind / my
breasts are confused / I can’t feel you / can’t make
you out anymore / something has happened /I’ve
done something wrong / the picture is fading / the
portrait is marred / just a single tear / single mark
across my abdomen / across the screen / blood /
quiet chaos all about me / now just remains the
silhouette / a concave belly / a flatline /

-Elizabeth Castillo (First appeared in Feral Poetry https://feralpoetry.net/portrait-of-a-girl-child-by-elizabeth-m-castillo/

Bios And Links

-Elizabeth M. Castillo 

is a British-Mauritian poet, writer, indie-press promoter. She lives in Paris with her family and two cats, where she writes a variety of different things under a variety of pen names. In her writing Elizabeth explores themes of race & ethnicity, motherhood, womanhood, language, love, loss and grief, and a touch of magical realism. She has words in, or upcoming in Selcouth Station Press, Pollux Journal, Revista Purgante, Bandit Fiction, StreetCake Magazine, Fevers of the Mind Press, Melbourne Culture Corner, Epoch Press, among others. Her bilingual, debut collection Cajoncito: Poems on Love, Loss, y Otras Locurasis out 2021. You can connect with her on Twitter and IG at @EMCWritesPoetry.

Day Nine – Dryad

Polar bear as the ice is melting:

So, maybe I’m the bear,
and the fear I see is my fear,
and the bewilderment is mine.,

as if I’m swimming hard
in a dissolving world, where all
those age-old certainties are melting –

that the world is ours,
that I am good,
that this place is bountiful,
and beautiful, and bottomless.

Maybe we’re all the bear,
realising that our home is shrinking
to a small space that can’t support
our weight, can’t feed us,
but we can’t step on
without disaster,

and the world is screaming.

The truth is that
the bear is the bear.
She swims on. I don’t know
if she feels hope, or fear,
and I can’t claim her
as a metaphor. She’s flesh and blood
and bones protruding,
she’s hungry
and the ice is melting.

-@sacosw

Blithe spirit

Posted on December 2, 2019
Sometimes I think the orchard
holds a spirit. Her bright presence
moving between the trees:
in spring, she brings the scent
of apple blossom, almost there,
and then in autumn she quickens
each fruit, makes it sweeter.
I’m fanciful. That’s my defence.

De (Whimsygizmo) is tending the bar tonight. It’s quadrille night at the dVerse poets’ pub, and we are using the word “spirit”.

fmmewritespoems.wordpress.com
Blithe spirit
Blithe spirit https://fmmewritespoems.wordpress.com/2019/12/02/blithe-spirit/ via
-@sacosw

Every Woman Needs To Be A Dryad

I am all my tree, and my tree is me.
Cut my bark, and I bleed. I float on leaves.
Lay your back against my skin, tell story
after story. Words are my memories.

I asked to be a tree when He refused
to leave me alone. Endlessly chased.
I got tired of always being abused.
He says my sexiness makes him sex crazed.

As if it is my fault He feels like that.
Told Him I don’t make Him do anything.
He’s responsible, His choice how He acts.
As a tree I hide, watch all happenings.

Every women needs a secret place.
A place where she has no fear to face.

-Paul Brookes

Image by by HilLesha O’Nan, David’s wife while she was visiting West Virginia. -(he/him) David L O’Nan is a writer/founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art. He has several self-published books and curator of 5 Anthologies. His work can be found on www.feversofthemind.com .   You can see his work on Anti-Heroin Chic, Icefloe Press, Cajun Mutt Press, Royal Rose Mag, Dark Marrow, Ghost City Review, Nymphs Publishing, Spillwords, Punk Noir Mag and more.  And has been a Best of the Net Nominee in 2019. Interview Continued: Q7:Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why? A: I look for writers that either trigger emotions or have an interesting rhythm in their work. There are so many between writers I have not spoken too and those I interact with on here quite a bit. Ilya Kaminsky influenced a couple of my poems last years. “By the Almond Tree” published by Anti-Heroin Chic being one of them, I always enjoy reading Peach Delphine, Ankh Spice, Robert Frede Kenter, Barney Ashton-Bullock, the sonnet series that you have, Catrice Greer, Jenny Mitchell, Tim Heerdink who is from nearby where I live, Shaindel Beers, December Lace, Jane Rosenberg LaForge, Charlotte Hamrick, Robin McNamara, Kushal Poddar, Megha Sood among so many more. What I’ve read by Jericho Brown is wonderful, Ada Limon, Ocean Vuong, Ron Whitehead, Anne Casey, Maya Angelou, Margaret Atwood has some interesting material. Anything that brings good imagery, or anyone that can feel they can bring a positive change in writing I enjoy. I don’t read enough. I’m still digging and looking for the scrolls that will help shape me further. Any writing that bleeds empathy. In current music lyricists I enjoy Manchester Orchestra, The National, Valerie June, Nicole Atkins, Marissa Nadler, Angel Olsen, Big Thief/Adrienne Lenker, Amanda Shires, Jason Isbell, Jeff Tweedy/Wilco, Jay Farrar, Michael Kiwanuka, Built to Spill, Damien Jurado, Austin Lucas, Elliott Smith (I know he’s passed), First Aid Kit, The War on Drugs, Janis Ian, Kate Bush, Lana Del Rey (has moments), Leon Bridges, Lera Lynn, Okkervil River and more of course. Poems From his book “Lost Reflections”: DORIS Doris, like a mannequin in a 1920’s dress Swayed towards you The lipstick kiss of a demon in hysteria, Balancing new traps through a mind latched in by a plastic skull She is shade, shut, tragic The remedy of miracles Now, fraudulent She became an old soul to erase death As Radar Through the night cold Lit up by only the light of snow We can hear wolves howl Heartbeats pounding as radar We whispered to each other our last secrets That depression was born in trails of lost acorns Micro thoughts that you wanted to evolve into completion A formidable life GOLIATH’S PALMS Watch as the wind invents a new scream Alarms pulsating you to twitches Your body defeated you Your angels deserted you Your puddles of disgust that leaks off the roof Staining the beautiful murdered flowers under your shoes Your night walks vanish in Goliath’s palms TRAINING PHANTOMS Laying down in my dying sheets Amongst a crowd of maggots and fleas I dream of her and I on our wedding day In my coma dreams You take my blood, you slow my heart Tell me to breathe How do I start? Is this how you train your ghosts? FETTERED Formerly a clown fettered to a balloon Now a casket mime holding a finger to the mouth A hush over the deserted town When all exploded and went away in a city of joy Laughter buried under the rubble And a balloon floats to a flaming sky IN THE DISTANCE In waves that clash together in a staccato masterpiece We rummaged the ocean Searching for all her secrets She left us old bottles full of folk songs And the city’s skyline tattooed its image as Reflection in the waters Can you see the shark’s eyes in the distance? YOUR BIBLE A twist of brilliance A dulcet drip from a sink Listen to the silence Surrounds suffocation Claustrophobia, the nemesis A comely whisper flows by your ears You whip open your bible Your urgency Pray that God is with you While you see smoke & mirrors in a lassitude reflection LITTLE NERVES Explosions throughout my little nerves Blankets of skin wrap around my aching body And my December eyes Listen, watching the snow As It pops on electrical wires Holding gifts Shake out all the air Missing pieces The heart needs repaired To burn away As ugly as money REVELRY Through all the revelry lay fragile ghost-skinned Poison Ivy on a frostbite A dancing fool on a train track A zipper away from my skeleton A dream that became reality in the same room, a same nightmare From nightmares before Vaporates the idea of dream We are all riven loners THE OVERLOOK A dirty minded storm approaching And my mind is rambling I’ve got police car flashes burning my retina, And I feel my disease is spreading Head to the angry waters of the river in some lost park, An overlook For the drifters Pen in my hand I write my sins down to be forgiven STATUES Shiver out my concrete heart Crumbled statues that rest as cuts inside my glove In mad genius hideaways Sometimes the world stops The mirror breaks The reflection becomes your shadow Rearrange my jigsaw puzzle As it unravels, frayed and dull pieces missing A PORTAL Can you sketch me a portal to escape to I’m feeling blended in with the rest of the clouds All trying to stand out A loose cannon to dare the formation of a destroyer When all I want is to be calm, a breeze Through the shelter My site blind to all the conflagration DEATH BALLET When you’re approached By the shadow man And his death ballet His coffins display in a figure 8 A murderous grin In a pirouette of sin You better find an arm to hold you away from his clutch, His narcotic stare And his bones That constantly pivot and twist Trances in rapture WONDERLAND What are your true feelings? A cryptic wonderland we swim in Tears of saltwater cuts through the oceans And now free the sharks To feast on our death in our shells, we hide And hope the fog will mask our scent MAINE TIMBERS When born to the wild You are the comfort of sunlight And the hell of a meteor A vigilante disguise Bullets for eyes Cloudy ash tears Death of old cigarette breath But you are the running fawn A run into the Maine Timbers And they are just a sniper who stepped on a nail BRAVO Bravo, good job Romeo You smell like old fish and piss Well aren’t you a tiger? With your emotional bullshit I’m sure all the ladies had quivering hands Ready to twist your chord Did you feed them all of these feelings? I mean, feelings Do you have feelings? Never have had feelings? Come on sting me, talking bee, sting me! Only for the Shore I’m just another paranoid cloud Moving away From the puncturing of lightning bolts I want to feel the sand in the skin of my feet I want to curl my toenails over the beating heart of seashells I want to feel the glance of a surging wind The feeling it has in the front end of a storm I am just the greater ocean Not the beach that you adore Write only for the shore BATTLING THE ROSES A Wrinkling face A cheek to the window Electrical light now dimming Everything used to be brighter My head is a swimming ocean Full of endless drownings I rest on the pane, inside screaming No energy left I can only watch The surge of rain battling the roses DROUGHT FOR A CACTI Crossing sticks as they crackle under my feet That bridge seems like far away cacti in a desert, drought of water Keep reaching, The blades are only temporary As they live inside the chambers Water the plant of love Keep reminding yourself that you matter even when broken HOME & THE HEART I feel the bruises of those who hurt the heart for pleasure I feel the healing when the beauty of family erases my self-doubts Which, with my anxiety is often and to me annoying So, who knows why I constantly feel like overcoming when love is the home and the heart

Day Eight – Owlman

 

-Pat Perry The creepy owlman

I, Owlman

I, Owlman fly above the church steeple
in corrugated cardboard wings made by mum,
stapled and brown sellotaped in full.
Didn’t mean to scare those girls who walked by.

My feathers are all soggy in the rain, fall
apart. Soon owl will go, leaving just me.
Mum took sharp scissors and curled all
these brown paper strips now all soggy.

Kitchen roll tubes are like a skeleton
under my wings. My claws weren’t very sharp,
so I used kitchen knives after she passed on.

My late mum is an owl now with a harp.
I used to only go out in the dark
as an owl. Now I, Owlman in my heart.

-Paul Brookes

Image by by HilLesha O’Nan, David’s wife while she was visiting West Virginia. -(he/him) David L O’Nan is a writer/founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art. He has several self-published books and curator of 5 Anthologies. His work can be found on www.feversofthemind.com .   You can see his work on Anti-Heroin Chic, Icefloe Press, Cajun Mutt Press, Royal Rose Mag, Dark Marrow, Ghost City Review, Nymphs Publishing, Spillwords, Punk Noir Mag and more.  And has been a Best of the Net Nominee in 2019. Interview Continued Q4: What is your daily writing  routine? A:  Unfortunately, I’m scattered.  I go into a week with a writing plan.  That soon becomes a broken puzzle.  I have Generalized Anxiety, ADHD, OCD and it is constantly trying to fit puzzles together and getting frustrated when the pieces don’t fit.   I don’t have a daily writing routine. I am happy when I can find the time to just write anything.  Sometimes, I come up with poem titles and work around that title to come up with material.  I am usually overly busy and get work done in spurts.  I either will write 5 poems within a couple days, or go a month without writing anything.  It is all according to my energy I am able to exude at that moment.  This is how it goes with my attempts at being an editor as well.   If I don’t feel I’m doing a good job at either writing or editing I can shut down for a bit. Q5: What subjects motivate you to write? A:  Usually, if I’m listening to more music at the time it will trigger my want to write.  When I’m listening to music that triggers emotions or anger then I’m more prone to pull out more material at a quicker time.  I’m mostly motivated to write about emotional triggers and less about an object placed in front of me.  I can be inspired to write though just by looking at artwork or listening to instrumental music.   I’m an overly emotional person, so the words, stories are squeezed out of tears, laughter, shakes and kicks.    A lot of it is bottled in and I walk around either silly or grouchy and then it comes out fully in writing. Q6: How do the writers you read when you were young influence your work today? A: The writers I read while young helped me develop a rhythm in my head to write.  I don’t always punctuate perfectly, I flow thoughts out freely.  I developed metaphor and rhythm from reading song lyrics and poetry throughout the years.  I write how I think and less about structure. I’m sure that doesn’t always win any points with other writers or sometimes editors.  If I tried to perfect structure I would de-construct my own structure.  These wires take quick photographs in my head for memories to capture so I can write out the images.  In characters I create, or in my own skin. Poems from “Lost Reflections” A BRAVE HEART, A REBELLIOUS HEART I was born into a natural rebellious state of mind With a dream of a brave heart, Yet there are no fears, Mishaps, nightmares when you trip in your freewill Can I preserve my rebellion for the ultimate battle, And the patience to Bind my heart to bravery A deep breath and realizing my challenges Defeating the consequences that lay inside your fears THE SAME In your arms i’ve died a million deaths The death called love The same flowing blood from two sacred hearts The blood is unity, of love That uncomfortable juice, that mythical feeling TRANSFERRING As a dream Thunderclaps Raining sheets And blinding wind whipping through my chest Through misery, love, torture & sin The needles, of screams ripping through the indentations of my skin I’m coughing out my spirit Swimming through a tornadic spin Eyes swallowing Transferring of breath The storm kissed my mind But ripped off the head THOSE SAME WHITE WALLS Fall apart Those same white walls Crumbling little ant eyes lost looking at the melting moon Forming solid as it smacks the ground A bridge for you to walk on To creep into that moon on a virgin night That you can hide inside the silence With all the stars to chatter, gossiping As lively as greed CRACK OF THE WIND With a crack of the wind The moans bend over a shaking house A winter’s bruise is calmed by the warmth of love The healing began when the coagulation broke And the freedom of mind rested the demons, The fears, the endless end Now, there is hope in a gust of wind Instead of inevitable destruction MALINGER He came in with a strut Pulled at their heartstrings A debonair heartbreaker Tried to blend into moonlight When his legend of notoriety, disgust spread He begins to mourn, becomes a malinger Observes all the crusting flakes of a noose Watch the nervous breakdown boil & dry ENGINEER I watched your engineer yourself from peasant to prophet While spirits swarm in your beds, frost coffins People began to believe a liar, a shade A sunlight’s fade Gossip drools from your false tongue THE RAILS A middle aged hobo with no charisma He lived out of a pitch black cavern Perception that he was a civilized reality Shows a pail, penurious, insipid train The rails are slippery to traverse only from Coma to coma Shall you live to your completion dream in muddy tunnels A FLEET They destroyed all in front of me A cagey crowd demeans me I try to escape my mind Pulled back under the tow of tears I begin to fleet through circles Hitting each wall over and over again Pushed back through the walls of fears Parasitic, they are ‘till only my bones REJECTED Clouds tied together by the ropes of light The request to empty our sky made by voided hearts The famous and the damned begin to pull with all their force The powers in the heavens rejected the request Instead, they vacuumed the seeds like crumbs. TAVERN In a morning fog A blistered old genius ripped from his mind Frozen out of the flesh Stumbled out of another tavern Another burning bridge Mortality questioned The abyss wrinkles up the wisdom Spotless thoughts define the defeated The war turned crystals into bullets